




V /v^ .^-j^lB\'. '^^^ .& /^ 



.^^ 




> /^v^-^ \/ y^, %^^^^ ,^^||^, \^ 















^'^ ^^ 



^ . 



v^ 












,G^ ^ %^w-,' ^ 








^0^ 







'oK 



^^ ^^ V. 



\ J" ^^^^fe^ ^^ A^ *:r 
^ <v 'o..* G^ "fh *?f^T* A <r^ 'o.T* G^ 




:■ '-^•'o^ °»^m'-. -ov* .'^^•. '-^t-o^ =» 





V^'V'l.tv*^'"^**' 







v-^^ 






V-^' 





o , » • ,G^ ^^ *'V.T* A 







RED EARTH 

Poems of New Mexico 



^^ 



rii 



JAN -3 J92! 



After the roar^ after the fierce modern music 

Of rivets and hammers and trams^ 

After the shout of the giant 

Youthful and brawling and strong 

Building the cities of men^ 

Here is the desert of silence^ 

Blinking and blind in the sun — 

An old^ old woman who mumbles her beads 

And crumbles to stone. 



[3] 



To E. B. McW. 



[5] 



RED 
EARTH 

[foems or 
^J\ew)\[exico 
mi 

^ -0 Alice Corbin H-w. 




CHICAGO 
RALPH PLETCHER SEYMOUR 



The majority of the poems in this book were first published in 
Poetry, A Magazine of Verse. From the Stone Age was 
printed in The New Republic; Trees anH Horses and 
Bird-Song and Wire in The Dial; the others appear here 
for the first time. 



COPYRIGHT 1920 BY 
RALPH FLETCHER SEYMOUR 



[8] 

Q)CI.A604872 



W 

J^ CONTENTS 

r^ Red Earth 13 

El Rito de Santa Fe 13 

^^ Los CONQUISTADORES I4 

'V Three Men Entered the Desert Alone. 15 

<s^ A Song from Old Spain 17 

"^ In the Sierras 17 

In the Desert, I, II, III, IV, V" 19 

Indian Songs 23 

Listening: Buffalo Dance: Where 
the Fight Was : The Wind : Courtship : 
Fear: Parting. 

Sand Paintings 26 

Corn Grinding Song 27 

The Green Corn Dance 29 

Desert Drift 31 

Spring: Dust-whorl: Trees and 
Horses: Bird-song and Wire: The 
Wrestler: Foot-hills: Waiting: Aft- 
ernoon: Cactus: Stone-pine and 
Stream: Shadow: Gold: Night: Des- 
CANso: Pueblo: Double: Fiesta. 

From the Stone Age 37 

Candle-light and Sun 39 

Candle-light: The Mask: Rain- 
prayer: Fame: Sunlight. 

The Eagle's Song 41 

On the AcEguiA Madre 42 

Pedro Montoya of Arroyo Hondo 43 

Una Anciana Mexicana 44 

Madre Maria 46 

CuNDiYO 47 

Manzanita 48 

Chula la Manana 49 

"Christ Is Born in Bethlehem" 50 

[9] 



La Muerte de la Vieja ^l 

Juan Quintana 5^ 

Petrolino's Complaint ' 53 

El Coyotito 54 

Notes 57 



[lo] 



RED EARTH 



[11] 



RED EARTH 

El Rito de Santa Fe 

This valley is not ours, nor these mountains, 

Nor the names we give them — they belong, 

They, and this sweep of sun-washed air, 

Desert and hill and crumbling earth. 

To those who have lain here long years 

And felt the soak of the sun 

Through the red sand and crumbling rock, 

Till even their bones were part of the sun-steeped 

valley; 
How many years we know not, nor what names 
They gave to antelope, wolf, or bison. 
To prairie dog or coyote. 
To this hill where we stand, 
Or the moon over your shoulder . . . 

Let us build a monument to Time 

That knows all, sees all, and contains all, 

To whom these bones in the valley are even as we 

are: 
Even Time's monument would crumble 
Before the face of Time, 
And be as these white bones 
Washed clean and bare by the sun . . . 



[13] 



LOS CONQUISTADORES 

What hills ^ what hills ^ my old true love? — Old Song 

What hills are these against the sky, 
What hills so far and cold^ 
These are the hills we have come to find, 
Seeking the yellow gold. 

What hills, what hills so dark and still. 
What hills so brown and^dry? 
These are the hills of this desert land 
Where you and I must die. 

Oh, far away is gay Seville, 
And far are the hills of home, 
And far are the plains of old Castile 
Beneath the blue sky's dome. 

The bells will ring in fair Seville, 

And folk go up and down. 

And no one know where our bones are laid 

In this desert old and brown. 

What hills, what hills so dark and cold. 
What hills against the sky"? 
These are the last hills you shall see 
Before you turn to die. 



[14] 



THREE MEN ENTERED THE 
DESERT ALONE 

Three men entered the desert alone. 

But one of them slept like a sack of stone 

As the wagon toiled and plodded along, 

And one of them sang a drinking song 

He had heard at the bar of The Little Cyclone. 

Then he too fell asleep at last, 

While the third one felt his soul grow vast 

As the circle of sand and alkali. 

His soul extended and touched the sky. 

His old life dropped as a dream that is past, 

As the sand slipped off from the wagon wheel — 
The shining sand from the band of steel, 
While the far horizon widened and grew 
Into something he dimly felt he knew, 
And had always known, that had just come true. 

His vision rested on ridges of sand, 

And a far-off horseman who seemed to stand 

On the edge of the world — in an orange glow 

Rising to rose and a lavender tone. 

With an early start in a turquoise band. 

And his spirit sang like a taper slim. 

As the slow wheels turned on the desert's rim 

Through the wind-swept stretches of sand and sky; 

He had entered the desert to hide and fly, 

But the spell of the desert had entered him. 



[15] 



Three men entered the desert alone. 

One of them slept like a sack of stone, 

One of them reached till he touched the sky. 

The other one dreamed, while the hours went by, 

Of a girl at the bar of The Little Cyclone. 



[16] 



A SONG FROM OLD SPAIN 

What song of mine will live? 

On whose lips will the words be sung 

Long years after I am forgotten — 

A name blown between the hills 

Where some goat-herd 

Remembers my love and passion? 

He will sing of your beauty and my love^ 

Though it may be in another tongue, 

To a strange tune, 

In a country beyond the seas — 

A seed blown by the wind — 

He will sing of our love and passion. 

In the Sierras 

Do not bring me riches 
From your store in the Andes 
Do not bring me treasures 
From deep ocean caves. 
Bring me but yourself 
And I'll gladly go with you, 
Bring me but yourself. 
And I will not be sorry. 

Do not bring me patterns 
Of silks or of satins, 
Do not bring me silver 
Or gold wrung from slaves. 
Bring me but yourself, 
And my heart will rest easy, 
And your head will be light 
With my breast as its pillow. 

[17] 



Do not bring me servants 

Or oxen or cattle, 

Or sheep for the shearing 

Or ships from the waves. 

Bring me but yourself 

For my share and my treasure, 

Then our fortune will grow 

And will never diminish. 



[18] 



IN THE DESERT 



I have seen you, O king of the dead, 
More beautiful than sunlight. 

Your kiss is like quicksilver; 
But I turned my face aside 
Lest you should touch my lips. 

In the field with the flowers 
You stood darkly. 

My knees trembled, and I knew 
That no other joy would be like this. 

But the warm field, and the sunlight, 
And the few years of my girlhood 
Came before me, and I cried, 
Not yet! 
Not yet, O dark lover! 

You were patient. 

— I know you will come again. 

I have seen you, O king of the dead. 
More beautiful than sunlight. 

II 

Here in the desert, under the cottonwoods 

That keep up a monotonous wind-murmur of leaves. 



[19] 



I can hear the water dripping 
Through the canals in Venice 
From the oar of the gondola 
Hugging the old palaces, 
Beautiful old houses 
Sinking quietly into decay. . . . 

O sunlight — how many things you gild 

With your eternal gold ! 

Sunlight — and night — are everlasting. 



Ill 

Once every twenty-four hours 

Earth has a moment of indecision : 

Shall I go on? — 

Shall I keep turning? — 

Is it worth while? 

Everything holds its breath. 

The trees huddle anxiously 

On the edge of the arroyo, 

And then, with a tremendous heave. 

Earth shoves the hours on towards dawn. 

IV 

Four o'clock in the afternoon. . . . 

A stream of money is flowing down Fifth Avenue. 

They speak of the fascination of New York 
Climbing aboard motor-busses to look down on the 

endless play 
From the Bay to the Bronx. 
But it is forever the same : 
There is no life there. 

[20] 



Watching a cloud on the desert, 

Endlessly watching small insects crawling in and out 

of the shadow of a cactus, 
A herd-boy on the horizon driving goats. 
Uninterrupted sky and blown sand: 
Space — volume — silence — 
Nothing but life on the desert. 
Intense life. 



The hill cedars and pinons 

Point upward like flames. 

Like smoke they are drawn upward 

From the face of the mountains. 

Over the sunbaked slopes, 

Patches of sun-dried adobes straggle; 

Willows along the acequias in the valley 

Give cool streams of green; 

Beyond, on the bare hillsides. 

Yellow and red gashes and bleached white paths 

Give foothold to the burros. 

To the black-shawled Mexican girls 

Who go for water. 



[21] 



INDIAN SONGS 

Listening 

The noise of passing feet 

On the prairie — 

Is it men or gods 

Who come out of the silence? 

Buffalo Dance 

Strike ye our land 
With curved horns! 
Now with cries 
Bending our bodies, 
Breathe fire upon us; 
Now with feet 
Trampling the earth, 
Let your hoofs 
Thunder over us! 
Strike ye our land 
With curved horns ! 

Where the Fight Was 

In the place where the fight was 

Across the river, 

In the place where the fight was 

Across the river: 

A heavy load for a woman 

To lift in her blanket, 

A heavy load for a woman 

To carry on her shoulder. 

In the place where the fight was 

Across the river, 



[23] 



In the place where the fight was 

Across the river: 

The women go wailing 

To gather the wounded, 

The women go wailing 

To pick up the dead. 

The Wind 

The wind is carrying me round the sky; 
The wind is carrying me round the sky. 
My body is here in the valley — 
The wind is carrying me round the sky. 

Courtship 

When I go I will give you surely 
What you will wear if you go with me; 
A blanket of red and a bright girdle, 
Two new moccasins and a silver necklace. 
When I go I will give you surely 
What you will wear if you go with me I 

Fear 

The odor of death 
In the front of my body. 
The odor of death 
Before me — 

Is there any one 

Who would weep for me? 

My wife 

Would weep for me. 



[24] 



Parting 

Now I go, do not weep, woman — 

Woman, do not weep; 

Though I go from you to die, 

We shall both lie down 

At the foot of the hill, and sleep. 

Now I go, do not weep, woman — 

Woman, do not weep; 

Earth is our mother and our tent the sky. 

Though I go from you to die. 

We shall both lie down 

At the foot of the hill, and sleep. 



[25] 



SAND PAINTINGS 

The dawn breeze 
Loosens the leaves 
Of the trees, 
The wide sky quivers 
With awakened birds. 

Two blue runners 
Come from the east, 
One has a scarf of silver, 
One flings pine-boughs 
Across the sky. 

Noon-day stretched 
In gigantic slumber — 
Red copper cliffs 
Rigid in sunlight. 

An old man stoops 
For a forgotten faggot. 
Forehead of bronze 
Between white locks 
Bound with a rag of scarlet. 

Where one door stands open. 
The female moon 
Beckons to darkness 
And disappears. 



[26] 



CORN-GRINDING SONG 

Tesuque Pueblo 

This way from the north 

Comes the cloud, 

Very blue, 

And inside the cloud is the blue com. 

How beautiful the cloud 
Bringing corn of blue color 1 

This way from the west 

Comes the cloud. 

Very yellow. 

And inside the cloud is the yellow corn. 

How beautiful the cloud 
Bringing corn of yellow color I 

This way from the south 

Comes the cloud, 

Very red, 

And inside the cloud is the red corn. 

How beautiful the cloud 
Bringing corn of red color! 

This way from the east 

Comes the cloud, 

Very white. 

And inside the cloud is the white com. 

How beautiful the cloud 
Bringing corn of white color! 



[27] 



How beautiful the clouds 
From the north and the west 
From the south and the east 
Bringing com of all colors I 



From the Indian 



[28] 



THE GREEN CORN DANCE 

San Ildefonso 

Far in the east 

^he gods beat 

On thunder drums. . . 

With rhythmic thud 
The dancers' feet 
Answer the beat 
Of the thunder drums. 

Eagle feather 
On raven hair, 
With bright tablita's 
Turquoise glare. 

Tasselled corn 
Stands tall and fair 
From rain-washed roots 
Through lambent air. 

Corn springs up 

From the seed in the ground, 

The cradled com 

By the sun is found. 

Eagle feather 
And turkey plume 
From the wind-swept cloud 
Bring rain and gloom. 

Hid in the cloud 
The wind brings rain 
And the water-song 
To the dust-parched plain. 

[29] 



Far in the east 
The gods retreat 
As the thunder drums 
Grow small and sweet. 

The dancers' feet 

Echo the sound 

As the drums grow faint 

And the rain comes down. 



[30] 



DESERT DRIFT 

Spring 

Spring has come 

To the apricot boughs; 

The cottonwoods 

Fringe green on the branches. 

Today the flood-gates are opened, 

And thin streams loosed 

From the high peaks of snow 

To acequias in the valley. 

Dust-whorl 

The wind picks up a handful of dust, 

And sets it down — 

Faint spiral of lives 

Lived long ago on the desert. 

Trees and Horses 

Trees stand motionless among themselves, 

Some are solitary. 

Horses wander over wide pastures; 

At night they herd closely, 

Rumps hunched to the wind. 

Bird-song and Wire 

The Rocky Mountain blue-bird 
Is a point of blue fire ; 
The meadow-lark 
Sings above the hum 
Of the telephone wire. 

Straight and gaunt 
The poles stand; 
They walk stiffly 
Over a thousand leagues 
Of rough land. 

[31] 



The Wrestler 

The tired wind creeps down the canyon 

At nightfall. 

By day it turns and flings itself 

Against the granite face of the mountains. 

Foot-hills 

New Mexico hills 

Are spotted like lizards, 

They sinuously glide and dissemble; 

If you take a forked stick 

You may catch one and hold it. 

Waiting 

More still than death 

That waits a thousand years 

In a new-ploughed field 

Of up-turned bones; 

So will I wait for you 

A thousand years. 

Afternoon 

Earth tips to the west 

And the hills lean backward — 

Cedar-trees 

Hugging the hillsides. 

Smoke drifts in the valley — 
The pinto sun 
Nickers over the gate 
Of the home corral. 

[32] 



Cactus 

The cactus scrawls crude hieroglyphs against the 

sky; 
It reaches with twisted, inquisitive fingers 
To clutch the throat of something and question 

Why. 

Stone-pine and Stream 

The stone-pine with green branches 

Stands on the brink of the canyon, 

The wind whispers in the tree — 

The wind lifts my hair. 

Water runs with a pattern of braided and woven 

music 
Through the stream in the canyon — 
My body flows like water through the stream in the 

canyon. 

Shadow 

A deep blue shadow falls 
On the face of the mountain — 
What great bird's wing 
Has dropped a feather? 

Gold 

Gold is under these hills; 

And the wind piles sand 

Through the cracks of deserted cabins. 

Gold chinked over the counters, 
Gold poured into the glasses, 
Gold flickered and flamed 
In the spendthrift gleam 
Of a woman's hair ... 

Gold is under these hills. 
Gold in the empty sunlight. 

[33] 



Night 

The night is dark, and die moon 
Moves heavily, dragging a cross; 
Penitent peaks drip, crowned with cactus ; 
The wind whips itself mournfully 
Through the arroyos. 

Descanso 

Beside this wooden cross 

By the cross of the desert cactus. 

The coffin-bearers rested: 

"Pray for the soul 

Of Manuel Rodriguez," 

And remember 

That death is the end of life. 

Pueblo 

The pueblo rises under the sun-bronzed noon 

As if hammered out of copper ; 

The sky's metallic blue 

Rings in the silence. 

Nothing moves but the shapes 

That strain without changing. 

Double 

Who is this running with me 
Whose shadow alone I see. 
And at high noon hear only 
The soft tread of his sandals'? 



[34] 



Fiesta 

The sun dances to the drums 
With Cottonwood boughs 
On head and ankles. 

The moon steps softly 
In a turquoise tablita. 

The stars run to pick up 
The eagle feathers 
Dropped by the dancers. 



[35] 



FROM THE STONE AGE 

Long ago some one carved me in the semblance of 
a god. 

I have forgot now what god I was meant to repre- 
sent, 

I have no consciousness now but of stone, sunlight, 
and rain; 

The sun baking my skin of stone, the wind lifting 
my hair: 

The sun's light is hot upon me, 

The moon's light is cool. 

Casting a silver-laced pattern of light and dark 

Over the planes of my body: 

My thoughts now are the thoughts of a stone, 

My substance now is the substance of life itself; 

I have sunk deep into life as one sinks into sleep; 

Life is above me, below me, around me. 

Moving through my pores of stone — 

It does not matter how small the space you pack 
life in. 

That space is as big as the universe — 

Space, volume, and the overtone of volume 

Move through me like chords of music. 

Like the taste of happiness in the throat, 

Which you fear to lose, though it may choke you — 

(In the cities this is not known. 

For space there is emptiness. 

And time a torment) 

Since I became a stone 

I have no need to remember anything — 

Everything is remembered for me; 

I live and I think and I dream as a stone. 



[37] 



In the warm sunlight, in the grey rain; 
All my surfaces are touched to softness 
By the light fingers of the wind, • 

The slow dripping of rain: 
My body retains only faintly the image 
It was meant to represent, 
I am more beautiful and less rigid, 
I am a part of space. 
Time has entered into me, 
Life has passed through me — 
What matter the name of the god I was meant to 
represent*? 



[38] 



CANDLE-LIGHT AND SUN 

. Candle-light 

It might have been me in the darkened room 

With the shutters closed, 

Lying straight and slim 

In the shuttered dusk, 

In the twilight dim: 

Like a silken husk 

When the corn is gone, 

Life withdrawn; 

I am living, and she is dead — 

Or is it I who have died instead? 

The Mask 

Death is a beautiful white mask. 

That slips over the face, when the moment comes, 

To hide the happiness of the soul. 

Rain-prayer 

A broken ploughed field 

In the driving rain, 

Rain driven slant-wise 

Over the plain. 

I long for the rain. 

The dull long rain. 

For farmlands and ploughlands 

And cornlands again. 

O grey broken skies. 

You were part of my pain ! 



[39] 



Fame 
Fame is an echo 
Far off, remote — 
But love is a sweetness 
You taste in the throat, 
Friendship a comfort 
When twilight falls. 
But fame is an echo 
Through empty halls. 

Sunlight 

The sunlight is enough, 

And the earth sucking life from the sun. 

Horses in a wide field are a part of it. 

Dappled and white and brown; 

Trees are another kind of life. 

Linked to us but not understood. 

(Whoever can understand a horse or a tree 

Can understand a star or a planet: 

But one may feel things without understanding. 

Or one may understand them through feeling.) 

The simple light of the sun is enough. 

One will never remember 

A greater thing when one dies 

Than sunlight falling aslant long rows of com, 

Or rainy days heavy with grey sullen skies. 

Not love, not the intense moment of passion, 

Not birth, is as poignant 

As the sudden flash that passes 

Like light reflected in a mirror 

From nature to us. 



[40] 



THE EAGLE'S SONG 

The eagle sings to the sea-gull, 
"My eyes are blind with pain, 
Peering into the sun's face, 
As yours in the tossing main; 

Yours are the depths of the sea, 
Mine the fathomless sky. 
Between us the tides of men 
Who blossom, and fall, and die." 

The eagle sings to the sea-gull, 
"The world will toss and strain 
Till the mountains march to the sea, 
And the sea climbs back again." 

The eagle sings to the sea-gull, 
"The mountains wait and sleep." 
And the sea-gull sings to the eagle 
The old sing-song of the deep. 



[41] 



ON THE ACEQUIA MADRE 

Death has come to visit us today, 
He is such a distinguished visitor 
Everyone is overcome by his presence — 
"Will you not sit down — take a chair ^" 

But Death stands in the doorway, waiting to depart; 

He lingers like a breath in the curtains. 

The whole neighborhood comes to do him honor, 

Women in black shawls and men in black sombreros 

Sitting motionless against white-washed walls; 

And the old man with the grey stubby beard 

To whom death came, 

Is stunned into silence. 

Death is such a distinguished visitor. 

Making even old flesh important. 

But who now, I wonder, will take the old horse to 
pasture*? 



[42] 



PEDRO MONTOYA OF ARROYO HONDO 

Pedro Montoya of Arroyo Hondo 
Comes each day with his load of wood 
Piled on two burros' backs, driving them down 
Over the mesa to Santa Fe town. 

He comes around by Arroyo Chamisa — 
A small grey figure, as grey as his burros — 
Down from the mountains, with cedar and pine 
Girt about each of the burros with twine. 

As patient as they are, he waits in the plaza 
For someone who comes with an eye out for wood, 
Then Pedro wakes up, like a bantam at dawn — 
Si, Senor, si Senor — his wood is gone. 

Pedro Montoya of Arroyo Hondo 
Rides back on one burro and drives the other. 
With a sack of blue corn-meal, tobacco and meat, 
A bit to smoke and a bit to eat. 

Pedro Montoya of Arroyo Hondo — 

If I envied any, I'd envy him ! 

With a burro to ride and a burro to drive, 

There is hardly a man so rich alive. 



[43] 



UNA ANCIANA MEXICANA 

I've seen her pass with eyes upon the road — 

An old bent woman in a bronze black shawl, 

With skin as dried and wrinkled as a mummy's, 

As brown as a cigar-box, and her voice 

Like the low vibrant strings of a guitar. 

And I have fancied from the girls about 

What she was at their age, what they will be 

When they are old as she. But now she sits 

And smokes away each night till dawn comes round. 

Thinking, beside the pinons' flame, of days 

Long past and gone, when she was young — content 

To be no longer young, her epic done : 

For a woman has work and much to do, 

And it's good at the last to know it's through. 

And still have time to sit alone. 

To have some time you can call your own. 

It's good at the last to know your mind 

And travel the paths that you traveled blind, 

To see each turn and even make 

Trips in the byways you did not take — 

But that, por Dios^ is over and done. 

It's pleasanter now in the way we've come; 

It's good to smoke and none to say 

What's to be done on the coming day. 

No mouths to feed or coat to mend. 

And none to call till the last long end. 

Though one have sons and friends of one's own, 

It's better at last to live alone. 

For a man must think of food to buy. 

And a woman's thoughts may be wild and high ; 

But when she is young she must curb her pride, 

And her heart is tamed for the child at her side. 

[44] 



But when she is old her thoughts may go 
Wherever they will, and none to know. 
And night is the time to think and dream, 
And not to get up with the dawn's first gleam; 
Night is the time to laugh or weep, 
And when dawn comes it is time to sleep . . 

When it's all over and there's none to care, 
I mean to be like her and take my share 
Of comfort when the long day's done, 
And smoke away the nights, and see the sun 
Far off, a shrivelled orange in a sky gone black. 
Through eyes that open inward and look back. 



[«] 



MADRE MARIA 

From the Spanish] 

On the mountain Lucia 
Was Madre Maria, 
With book of gold. 
Half was she reading, 
Half praying and pleading 
For sorrow foretold. 

Came her son Jesus 
To the mountain Lucia: 
"What are you doing then, 
Madre Maria?' 

"Nor reading nor sleeping, 
But dreaming a dream. 
On Calvary's hill-top 
Three crosses gleam, 
Bare in the moonlight; 
Your body on one 
Nailed feet and hands, 
O my dear little son I" 

"Be it so, be it so, 
O mi Madre Maria I" 

Who says this prayer 

^hree times a day 

Will find 'Heaven' s doors 

Opened alway. 

And Hell's doors shut 

Forever and aye 

Amen, Jesus! 



[46] 



CUNDIYO 

As I came down from Cundiyo, 
Upon the road to Chimayo 

I met three women walking; 
Each held a sorrow to her breast, 
And one of them a small cross pressed- 

Three black-shawled women walking. 

"Now why is it that you must go 
Up the long road to Cundiyo"?" 

The old one did the talking: 
"I go to bless a dying son." 
"And I a sweetheart never won." 

Three women slowly walking. 

The third one opened wide her shawl 
And showed a new-born baby small 

That slept without a sorrow : 
"And I, in haste that we be wed — 
Too late, too late, if he be dead! 

The Padre comes tomorrow." 

As I went up to Cundiyo, 

In the grey dawn from Chimayo, 

I met three women walking; 
And over paths of sand and rocks 
Were men who carried a long box — 

Beside three women walking. 



[47] 



I 



MANZANITA 

From the Spanish 

Little red apple upon the tree, 

If you are not in love, fall in love with me ! . . . 

From me this night you shall not go. 

Not till the dawn, when the first cocks crow. 



[48] 



CHULA LA MANANA 

From the Spanish 
Pretty is the morning, 

Pretty is the day. 
When the moon comes up 
It is light as day. 

Fortune's wheel keeps turning! 

Yes, Fortune has its ups and downs. 

Fortune is a bubble. 
It was all for a married woman 

I had my trouble. 

Fortune's wheel ke^j turning! 



It was eight o'clock at the bridge, 
And nine at Jesus Maria, 

But before I could reach her door, 
I was caught by her fat old tia! 

Fortune's wheel keeps turning! 



[49] 



"CHRIST IS BORN IN BETHLEHEM" 

A New Mexico Nursery Rhyme 

Crista nacio is what the rooster said, 

And the hen said, Y^n Belen! 

The goats were so curious that they said 

Vamos a ver — let us go see! 

But the wise old sheep said, 

No es menester! — there's no need of it! 

Cristo nacio 
En Belen! 
Vamos a ver — 
No es menester! 



[50] 



LA MUERTE DE LA VIEJA 

There were four old women as old as she 
Who knelt in the room where the sick one lay, 
And the resador with his book of prayers 
Who sat by her side all night to pray. 

In the morning light her face was grey 
As the ash that covered the embers still, 
The black-shawled women had never stirred 
And the old man's voice was hoarse and shrill. 

The crucifix laid on her heaving breast 
Moved with her harsh breath up and down, 
And her mouth like a chicken's gaped for air 
With a noise that the droning could not drown. 

The sunlight poured through the open door 
Where I stood and wondered how it could be 
That the old, old woman with such great strength 
Fought with the force we could not see. 

As she had fought long years ago 
Through child-bed pain, now her body thin 
Strove to the last with the mid-wife Death, 
Till silence ushered her new life in. 



[51] 



JUAN QUINTANA 

The goat-herd follows his flock* 
Over the sandy plain, 
And the goats nibble the rabbit-bush 
Acrid with desert rain. 

Old Juan Quintana's coat 

Is a faded purple blue, 

And his hat is a warm plum-brown, 

And his trousers a tawny hue; 

He is sunburnt like the hills, 
And his eyes have a strange goat-look, 
And when I came on him alone. 
He suddenly quivered and shook. 

Out in the hills all day, 
The trees do funny things — 
And a horse shaped like a man 
Rose up from the ground on wings. 

And a burro came and stood 

With a cross, and preached to the flock, 

While old Q'uintana sat 

As cold as ice on a rock. 

And sometimes the mountains move. 
And the mesa turns about, 
And Juan Quintana thinks he's lost, 
Till a neighbor hears him shout. 

And they say with a little laugh 
That he isn't quite right, up here; 
And they'll have to get a muchacho 
To help with the flock next year. 

[52] 



PETROLINO'S COMPLAINT 

The old ways have changed since you walked here, 

But worst of all is the way the people have 

become. 

They have no hearts, and their minds are like putty, 

And if you ask for conversation, they might as 

well be dumb! 

Though I am old, and my sight is not good, 

And I don't hear as well — muy verdad — as some. 

With my stick I can walk faster than many. 

And my mind travels faster than a man's with 
no tongue I 

The young have no thought for their elders. 

Their ranches are now no bigger than your thumb, 

The young men work in the mines in Colora'o, 
Or they sit and warm their stomachs in the sun! 

The girls spend their money on big hats and velvet. 
But when they would marry, they haven't the 
sum; 
And the old songs and dances are forgotten. 

As the Saints will be forgotten — if they go on as 
they've begun! 

I have gone looking through hillsides and canyons. 

Through all the placitas where we used to run; 
But the old ways have changed since you walked 
here. 
And a goat is more sociable than a man that is 
dumb! 



[53] 



EL COYOTITO 

From the Spanish 
When I left Hermosillo 

My tears fell like rain, 
But the little red flower 

Consoled my pain. 

I am like the coyote 

That rolls them, and goes 
Trotting off side-ways. 

And nobody knows. 

The green pine has fallen. 

Where the doves used to pair; 
Now the black one may find on returning 

Little tow-heads with sandy hair! 

The adobe is gone 

Where my sword hung suspended; 
Why worry — when everything's 

At the last ended? 

The adobe is gone 

Where my mirror was bright, 
And the small cedar tree 

Is the rabbit's tonight. 

The cactus is bare 

Where the tunas were sweet; 
No longer need you be jealous 

Of the women I meet. 

Friends, if you see her 

In the hills up above. 
Don't tell her that I am in prison — 

For she is my love. 

[54] 



NOTES 



NOTES 

Page 23. Indian Songs: Based on the literal translations 
made by Miss Frances Densmore. (Chippewa Music, 
Bulletins 45 and 53, Bureau of American Ethnology.) 
Indian poetry, in its most characteristic form, is at 
the opposite pole from narrative or descriptive poetry, or 
even from the usual occidental lyric, which gives a double 
image, i. e., the original emotional stimulus through the 
thought or emotion aroused by it. Indian poetry is seldom 
self-conscious to this degree. It gives the naked image, 
or symbol, which is itself the emotional stimulus. The 
distinction is subtle, but one who would interpret or 
translate Indian verse must perceive it. 

Page 27. Corn-Grinding Song: This song was given me 
by Canuto Suaza, a Tesuque Indian, who translated it 
for me from the Tewa, in both Spanish and English. 
My rendering is as direct as possible. 

Page 29. The Green Corn Dance: The symbolism of 
Indian dances, carried out in every detail of costume, 
gesture, and song, takes such a hold upon the imagina- 
tion that one becomes only half conscious of the dancers, 
lost in that archetypal world of which the dance furnishes 
a symbolic mirror. 

Page 46. Madre Maria: From a Spanish version ob- 
tained by Miss Barbara Freire-Marreco from an Indian 
woman at the Santa Clara Pueblo. The Indians have 
preserved many of the traditional and popular Spanish 
New Mexico songs. This is an old song, probably 
brought to New Mexico by the early Franciscans, other 
versions of it having been found in South America. The 
final stanza is obviously a local addition. 

Pages 48, 50. Manzanita and the New Mexico Nursery 
rhyme "Christ is Born in Bethlehem'^ were given me by 
Mrs. N. Howard Thorp of Santa Fe. 

Page 49. Chula la Mahana is a free translation of a 
popular New Mexico song. (The word tia means aunt.) 
There are many versions of this song in the southwest 
and in old Mexico. 

[57] 



Page 54. El Coyotito is from the Spanish version in Charles 
F. Lummis' The Land of Poco Tiempo. Mr. Lummis 
himself has made an excellent translation of the song, 
but has left out, perhaps judiciously, some of the tang. 
His translation, however, is fitted to the music accom- 
panying the original song; while mine has created a new 
rhythm. 



[58] 



r H 16 






:- -^^0^ f 
















r^o' 








*'T;t*' A 



o > 





^ qV 0-0, "^o aV 



•^^0^ 








V 





















» -N"- 






.0" o", 
















0^ ' 






















HECKMAN 

JINDERY INC. 



^ DEC 88 

N. MANCHESTER 
INDIANA 4fiQR? 



Ps^ N. MANCHESTER, 
V«— ^^ INDIANA 4fiqfi9 




